


I Lose My Breath-

by Kittenfightclub



Category: Death Machine (1994)
Genre: Biting, But they really do love each other, Drugs, Kissing, M/M, Marijuana, Multi, Poetry, Unclear Relationship Boundaries, painful foreshadowing, really pointless fluff tbh, shouting, worrying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-12 07:12:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10485258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kittenfightclub/pseuds/Kittenfightclub
Summary: - steep'd amid honey'd morphineThe Boys™ are worried (or confident) and high. Takes place the night before the plot.





	

**Author's Note:**

> uhh yeah, lots of really unsure headcannons mashed together.  
> The poems are "London", by William Blake, and "Song of Myself", by Walt Whitman
> 
> very much inspired by the song "The Story of Tonight" from Hamilton  
> and the character dynamics of the Lone Gunman (because it's hard for me to really get a character from so little source material)

There is a modesty in childhood not so frequently recognized; there are monsters, killers -you see the death from a young age-, but it is not you that is killed. It is not you, or your friends, or your family. The children of common people are killed -for it is hard to see yourself as simply a common person-, and turned into martyrs; old men make the papers for wisdom spoken with dying breaths.

You like to think you’re educated enough to know the difference between poverty and death -but really, where do you draw the line-. It is the children of poverty who are killed, innocent, low, and brought lower. 

“In every cry of every man,  
In every infant’s cry of fear,  
In every voice-”

“Hey! Don’t bring us down!” Sam spoke, even as he wiped at his face. It had almost been a shout, not in anger, but in anguish. Raimi’s shouts could silence a room. There was a crack in his voice that relayed his emotions. Weyland knew to shut up, sometimes it is better to ignore the death, ignore the cause, if only for a night -one last night-.

There were bags under Raimi’s eyes; there were bags under each of their eyes. Long nights, awake, smoking, dreaming, and formulating the plan. The plan that would give hope for freedom, hope for equality to a long suffering common folk. Maybe it was the drugs, but it was just easier to laugh then. When they had just been making the plan, not waiting for the beginning of its momentum. Raimi could not bring even a half-hearted smile to his face.

What if there is a shoot out- the guns aren’t loaded- they don’t know that. It is hard enough to prove a protest to be peaceful, harder still to prove it with a gun in your hand.

There was a pause, an exhale; “don’t bring us down.” A new, more gravely voice from the corner. It was obvious that something, if not the dreary poem, had sobered Yutani as well; he stared down at the floor and took another drag.

Weyland groaned, then huffed out a laugh. 

“Alright, alright,” he held out a hand and a cigarillo of blue de hue -imported, one of Yutani’s friends, or so he had said when he gifted the bag “to the cause”- was handed over. There was a muffled cough from the corner, and when Yutani looked up and met Raimi’s eyes, there were clear red rings around the both of them. 

Sam managed a smile.

It was almost like a game with the two of them, playful at first and then they grew more rough. Weyland was more than content to smoke, and watch the battle of tongues and teeth play out. He let out a huff of a laugh; they had not begun yet -for tonight-, but surely soon, as each stood up. They maintained the eye contact, hazy and drugged up minds meeting sharp wit and trained claws. Yutani had been trained to fight, Raimi, not so much -but it was not solely a battle of strength-.  
Weyland sighed, closing his eyes in ecstasy as he inhaled; when he opened his eyes again, they had met in the middle of the room, lips already mashing together, hands on fabric, and clasped together like a chain-link fence. It was almost like a fight, were they both not so desperate. The only thing they fought for was air as they pushed against each other.

-Mind you, this was not a nightly occurrence. Only in the presence of such tense spirits, hopeful minds, revolutionary minds unable to thrive, and with the inclusion of enough cannabis, was this passion made possible. While there was no doubt in their minds that they would survive the next day, there was a large risk associated with this plot.-

Yutani and Raimi pulled apart laughing -something had the ability to cheer them up it seemed-, and Raimi huffed, still grinning, as he flicked a stray hair away from where it had fallen in his eye. This was happiness he imagined, as the pair came back together, kissing again. Biting at lips and tongues and clawing at each other like animals.

This is happiness, but it’s hard to lose yourself in happiness with children dying, people starving on the the streets. The mission would be a success, or all would be lost. This happiness would be lost.  
Love, and life, and freedom, these cannot be taken away. Raimi put his faith in these.

Yutani knew how to fight, but Raimi knew when to run. This would save him later, if only they knew. It would help him now. He backed away, over to where Weyland was watching and sunk down on his knees to be level with the chair in the which the older man sat. 

He wasn’t ‘old’ per-say, but old enough to put a kid like Raimi in his place (he would never do it though, neither would Yutani; Raimi had to much reckless energy to be bogged down, no one wanted to ruin him, to destroy him just yet. It was his confidence -and Weyland’s careful planning- that would make the mission a success).

When a kiss was planted on his chin. This was a competition, as kisses were trailed up his face to his lips, it was Yutani’s turn to watch. More kisses, Raimi’s hands gripping onto the chair, little hums escaping his lips as he captured Weyland’s again and again. 

In the end he was shoved away, Weyland laughed and went back to his cigarillo. He caught Yutani’s eyes, which seemed to say “what did he do?”. 

“Nothing,” he spoke aloud -confusing Raimi-, “let him get it out, or he’ll start biting,” a laugh.

It was understandable. Sam was excited for the day to come; he had no doubt the mission would be a success; he wanted to be a hero, now, then, as soon as possible. He nipped at Yutani’s jaw, thinking of victory, and hope, and a cheering crowd. That’s what hero’s get.

“Watch it,” a hiss. 

Raimi groaned, “fuck, that was hot.”

A growl, and the tide turned. Yutani pinned Sam to the floor, the boy’s face -much to young- peering up at him with admiration and something akin to lust. They didn’t call it lust; they didn’t call it love, but that doesn’t eliminate the possibility.. “We’re a team, and a team runs best on coffee, and sex, and weed,” they had agreed after the first time it had happened, completely spontaneous; each had been surprised, too shocked to disagree.

When Yutani bent down to kiss him, gently, on the forehead, Raimi tried to meet his lips. He tried, but failed, still refusing to tire. Another kiss and he accomplished it, pulling Yutani down on top of him with a grin.

-

The one chair was much too small for the three of them, but each was too tired to move anywhere else -besides, where to go?-. They had landed there, breathing heavy and were pulled up to sit by Weyland’s sure hands.

“There you go,” he laughed, eyes rimmed with red. He snuffed out the joint and threw it to the floor. Raimi lay across his lap, shirt still rucked up, and panting with exhaustion. There was nothing adult about his appearance, except a smear of blood across his lower lip.  
Yutani sat on the ground, head leaning against Weyland’s leg. He picked up the cigarillo, but threw it back down. His lighter was in the pocket of his jeans, discarded in the floor.

Both Sam and Yutani were soon asleep. Weyland sighed and ran a hand through the young boys hair. Raimi had been insistent about the cut, it was relatively new, but already getting shaggy. He had shaved the sides again, just hadn’t trimmed the top. There was a cut on his scalp where he had slipped with the razor. There had been blood; Weyland had bandaged it for him. Yutani had scowled.

He wondered what wounds there would be to bandage at the end of the day tomorrow.

He retrieved his book from the corner of the seat where he had tucked it during the action, and opened to the marked page. He still read books, despite the push towards new technology. They had a dusty feel to them that was grounding. These poems had an emotion to them that you can only experience from running your hand across a smooth page.

“I am cut by bitter and angry hail, I lose my breath,  
Steep'd amid honey'd morphine, my windpipe throttled in fakes of death,  
At length let up again to feel the puzzle of puzzles.”

Would they succeed, who could tell with Raimi in charge. He hoped they would, he hoped they would with all his being. He hoped there wouldn’t be a shootout, but he also hoped that if there was, he would be the first to go.


End file.
